


strange, unearthly things

by botanyclub



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, i come bearing gifts and the gift is me forcing this witch au on all of you, soft soft soft, the one where anne accidentally summons gilbert as her human familiar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub
Summary: “Who—” Anne is about to call out when it happens.When impossibly, she feels that often spoken-of pull of her heart, a tugging that speaks to something deep and well-buried, and can only be interpreted as a tendril of her soul, weaving and binding with that of this new apparition’s. His own face is shocked, hands clutching and clawing at his chest because he, too, feels the pull. A contract that cannot be undone.“I summon you creature, daemon, figure of darkness—that which will become my familiar, until death do us part.”
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Comments: 15
Kudos: 70





	strange, unearthly things

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Charlotte Brontë's _Jane Eyre_.  
> "“You — you strange — you almost unearthly thing! — I love as my own flesh." 

Anne thinks there’s something poetic about the Sunday before Halloween: the beginning of a week that marks the ending of a month, and the juxtaposition between a Holy Day and the upcoming Samhain. Queens Academy is appropriately abuzz with anticipation, a frenetic kind of energy that grows stronger by the day, although professors remain business as usual in their preparations for when the boundaries between worlds reach their thinnest point all year. But while nothing of note has happened in the last half century (the mysterious disappearance of an entire town in the neighboring province aside), the castle is still readying for total lockdown come All Hallow’s Eve. Thus, the window of opportunity for sneaking out to perform an unauthorized summoning ritual is pretty much slim to none, although Anne is more than willing to take on any risks if it means finally having a familiar of her own.

She carefully makes one last sweep of her chambers, going through a mental checklist of materials she needs if everything is to go according to plan.

“. . . Candles . . . chalk . . . and lastly, salts.”

Satisfied that she has everything nestled within the satchel at her side, Anne opens the heavy oak door and peers out into the darkened corridor, seeing nothing but dust motes and the flickering of torch flames in the distance. There’s not a single soul to be witnessed, given that it is half an hour to midnight and Professor Lynde had come through the hour prior to check everyone into their rooms—a recent safety precaution to prevent just this: Anne Shirley, out of bed, and on her very worst behavior.

The redhead clings to the walls as she slinks her way towards the basement, heart thudding heavily in her chest while she strains to detect any warning signs of danger. Twice, she has to duck into an alcove and hold her breath while professors pass by on their rounds, only half-paying attention because they don’t expect anyone to be so bold.

But Anne is a naturally bold person and, more importantly, a self-righteously impatient one as well, having constantly been denied the opportunity to perform a summoning ritual despite being one of the brighter witches her age, and one of the remaining few without familiars in her whole entire class. Consequently, Anne feels held back in terms of reaching her absolute potential, but no matter how much she advocates and flat out _begs_ to be deemed ready, the collective faculty’s answer is almost always the same.

 _“You lack polish,_ ” is Professor Andrews’ esoteric justification. _“A lack of stability that’s required to have a familiar of your own.”_

Two years in a row, Anne has failed to demonstrate these nebulous qualities that everyone else seems to possess in spades—even Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, who is possibly the least polished person Anne knows, and whose sleepy, hare-like familiar is equally as clumsy in disposition.

Collecting accomplishments and accolades—it all is for naught. Because without a familiar, Anne will never be recognized as a full and proper witch, the lack of one an asterisk that follows her wherever she goes.

At the end the day, Anne suspects discrimination, being one of the few students on campus with less than noble lineage, not of the wealthy merchant class, or a generation removed from gentry. Anne only attends the Queens Academy through the patronage of Lady Gertrude while working twice as hard and exceling thrice as often in order to prove her worth. At a minimum, Anne must maintain her ranking as a top student in school, which is a feat in and of itself when she doesn’t have a small fleet of tutors or wealthy parents to help.

In that, and in many regards, Anne only has herself.

Her magic is a living thing, as wild and nimble as the one who controls it—not a parlor trick or talent becoming carelessly underused, when the world is at your fingertips so complacency settles into the marrow of your bones. Anne’s magic is desperate—it’s what kept her going during the years she bounced from employer to employer, living on the streets with kids older and stronger and more prone to stealing her wages when she earned them at all. Anne’s magic is a fire held desperately between palms, huddled in alleyways for warmth during winter; the tingling stretch of healing skin after beatings; a wave of calm over babies refusing to go down for naps despite the threat of Mrs. Hammond’s annoyance.

Perhaps that is the polish Anne lacks: the stability she was denied.

Not inherent, but _inherited_.

Perhaps Anne never stood a chance.

So after endless rejections and a stern warning from Professor Lynde to quit the notion altogether, Anne figures she’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission, and create that chance for herself.

Like now, when Anne has to depend on moonlight and muscle memory as a means to keep her course. She had shuffled through a few different possibilities as a backdrop for her scheme, including a clearing beneath the trees and a star-speckled sky. But reality kicks in when she rationalizes the improbability of sneaking off castle grounds and then sneaking back on again undetected. Anne later settles on the basement level, rarely visited and even rarer inspected, offering maximum privacy and therefore the obvious choice of location.

She slips into the empty classroom she had earlier stashed the other half of her supplies, nearly jumping out of her skin to discover that she is not entirely alone.

“You’re here!”

“We’ve been waiting forever!”

Twenty sets of eyes stare back in the dim lighting of a torch that is burning softly in the corner, casting long shadows around the room. Practically half of her class and their familiars mill about on the furniture Anne pushed aside earlier to clear space in the center, some sitting on tables and others on the floor. All are wearing similar expressions of expectancy as they turn to face their classmate.

“What’s going on?” Anne lets her satchel slide smoothly off her shoulder. She clearly overestimated castle security if they had all managed to leave their rooms undiscovered.

Josie’s icy blue eyes still piece sharp in the torchlight. Her snow-white ermine’s, wrapped regally around her neck, shares the exact same hue and distinctive judgement as befitting of a creature who is bound to Josie for life. “Waiting for you, obviously. Ruby claims you’re going to summon nothing short of a dragon and such an achievement requires an audience, don’t you think Rubes?”

The tiny blonde in question has the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry, Anne. The words just came out of my mouth before I could help it!”

“No matter,” Diana dismisses, sidling up next to Anne and squeezing her hand in reassurance. “I’m sure Anne will pull off something spectacular for tonight. After all, she’s the most brilliant of us all.”

The attribution makes Anne blush and only serves to amplify the pressure placed upon her even more, an uncomfortable weight that induces a sense of lethargy in her limbs. A detriment, considering it gives the others license to offer unsolicited advice.

“Chalk it first,” Charlie says, speaking up as Anne starts emptying out the contents of her bag. He’s physically incapable of going a day without allowing his ego to supersede all of his more redeeming characteristics, which Anne can't remember any at the moment, but is sure that they exist.

“Read a book, Sloane. Everyone knows it’s best practice to start off with a ward.”

“Wait, isn’t it prayer?”

“I thought it was reflection?”

 _“Shut up!”_ She casts a general glare about the room, annoyed at having an audience unsilenced by the usual gravitas present at formal summoning ceremonies held at the beginning of the school year. She had watched with both reverence and envy as the rest of her classmates performed their rituals with all the pomp and circumstance befitting of reaching such a milestone in their lives, and had hatched her plan right then and there, temper flaring at the slight of exclusion. Once bitten, twice spurned, and third time’s the charm.

She burns a bundle of sage and willow bark—“To cleanse”—before taking a breath.

The last month and a half has been in preparation for tonight: reading and taking notes on all the ins and outs of summonings; foraging for herbs and borrowing from the stockroom what she can’t, small samples at a time so as not to draw suspicion. All to meet her long-awaited familiar.

The others watch as Anne carefully lights a candle, tipping the blackened cylinder to pour out drops of malleable wax onto the stone floors at five equidistant points. Shaking hands chalk straight lines between each pool of wax, simultaneously arranging the rest of the candles in a perfect pentagram formation. Anne lights each wick with the tip of her wand, pulse pounding, and draws a circle with an herb mixture of feverfew and thistle, with bonedust to bind. Just a pinch of it from Headmistress Cuthbert’s personal stock, all the more powerful if the rumors about the supply containing the remains of her former familiar are to be believed.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Jane asks skeptically, peering at the nontraditional ingredients and the small chunks of thistle that Anne leaves unground in the dust. Jane’s tiny imp familiar flutters steadily above her shoulder, curious too at the unusual display.

Truthfully, Anne has no idea. She’s studied the texts and performed this ritual a million times over in the safety of her head, but when it comes to the here and now? Anne feels woefully ill-prepared. Especially when she is experimenting with different ingredient combinations, and on a night so close to Halloween, where the chances of the summoning going awry grow exponentially by the hour. There are so many variables to account for which Anne had excused in her excitement for tonight, that have since become so glaring, she feels tempted to put a stop to this operation altogether.

But the thought of Josie Pye, glowering with smugness, is enough to snap Anne out of her hesitation.

“Of course,” she responds with overly-fake confidence.

Anne sprinkles the last of the powder and closes the loop, feeling a whisper of magic wash over her when the last granule falls into place.

_It’s time._

She scoots a few paces back, bare knees scraping against the floor in her clumsy efforts to get started, and does not allow herself one last glance around the room in case she catches her own fear reflected in one of her classmate’s eyes. Instead, Anne focuses on steeling her nerves, focusing her senses, and letting the background fade away.

From her pocket, she produces a dagger that had cost a nickel for the local blacksmith to sharpen, and which she has spent the last fortnight polishing into a dull, matte-like shine. Then, Anne slashes her palm in a straight, horizontal cut, momentarily mesmerized at the sight of the blood, before remembering to place the palm flat against the ground. The stinging flesh grounds her as she gathers every ounce of her magic, straining and shaking to bend the full force of it to her will. The incantation comes effortlessly, having been the only words Anne whispers to herself every night before bed and traced in the margins of her parchment during class.

She doesn’t know what they mean, being of the Old Tongue, long-lost and unstudied save for a handful of scholars at Kings Academy in the North. But now, when Anne speaks, she hears the translation in her head, an amalgamation of unfamiliar voices save for Anne’s own cutting through the thick of it all.

_“I summon you creature, daemon, figure of darkness—that which will become my familiar, until death do us part. I offer you passage and protection in exchange for a contract, using my blood for assurance and my life as collateral. Our magic, entwined. The breath that passes from me to you. Heed this invocation and appear before me now!”_

The temperature in the room drops by several degrees, raising goosebumps down her arms, and making the hairs stand on end. Anne trains her eyes on the space just above the circle, waiting for an unnatural disturbance or some sort of rippling in the air. But there is nothing for a while—just the refraction of a moonbeam—while Anne’s magic and stamina are beginning to wane. She expended too much energy at the outset and is now in danger of winking out.

The amount of time elapsing is not unheard of, but unusual. Especially since most familiar rituals take a matter of minutes at max, although there are some that have been known to take place over several _days_ , and yielded creatures such as harpies and griffins, which bring a certain level of prestige. Anne figures the closer to Samhain, the easier the summons, and the stronger the familiar, with the border being so thin.

Meanwhile, the crowd minus Josie is expecting nothing less than a dragon and perhaps Anne is too. Due to an inflated sense of genius or a consequence for her patience, she isn’t sure, but the odds of Anne sustaining a portal past the next few minutes is looking incredibly low. She’ll be lucky to last long enough to conjure a silkworm, at best.

Entirely without meaning to, she utters a quiet, _“Please”_ into the air.

But there is no response—just silence.

Sweat beads form and slip ceaselessly down her temples, spilling onto the floor and co-mingling with the blood that is beginning to dry. Anne suspects she cut just a little too deep and the loss of blood is contributing to her growing fatigue.

Vision blurring around the edges, darkness pinches in as Anne feels her consciousness slipping away.

As she is reaching the very last of her reserves, so close to collapse that Anne can taste the copper tang of blood on her tongue, a purple rift appears, and then the telltale rustling of air getting sucked into the depths. Hastily-plaited pigtails flap wild around Anne’s face, more fortunate than the books and debris that sail into the abyss. Alarmingly, she feels her own body beginning to give into its gravitational pull, re-scraping both knees as the portal draws her in.

It lasts all but a second.

Just like an inhale, there is the compulsory expulsion that sends her flying backwards into a bookshelf, depositing Anne unceremoniously on her butt, and knocking the breath from her lungs in a parallel fashion. Adrenaline too high to really register the pain, she turns her attention back to its source in time to see the rift spit out a figure that looks too much like a boy, someone she could find on the streets, and nothing at all like a dragon. Last time she checked, dragons did not possess curly brown hair or a distinct lack of scales.

What looks like soot casts his skin an overall darker shade of brown, in stark contrast against the hazel coloring of his eyes. She cannot place his attire as anything she’s ever seen before, but not so foreign from the tunic and waistcoats that is the custom. He looks equally surprised to see Anne and everyone else on the opposite side of the circle.

“Who—” Anne is about to call out when it happens.

When impossibly, she feels that often spoken-of pull of her heart, a tugging that speaks to something deep and well-buried, and can only be interpreted as a tendril of her soul, weaving and binding with that of this new apparition’s. His own face is shocked, hands clutching and clawing at his chest because he, too, feels the pull. A contract that cannot be undone.

_“I summon you creature, daemon, figure of darkness—that which will become my familiar, until death do us part.”_

She hears the collective gasp from her classmates when the boy (her familiar?) falls forward, both hands supporting his weight as he struggles to breathe. More shocking than his appearance is the fact that his palms fall outside of the boundary line, and to seemingly no effect. Her wards have failed, magical protections an illusion, everyone's safety at risk.

Anne cries, “But my circle is perfect! There’s absolutely no way any demon should be able to break through!”

The figure looks up and speaks for the very first time. A deep, rumbling voice that runs through her body like a blade. “What are you talking about? I’m not a demon. My name is Gilbert Blythe.”

**Author's Note:**

> A shit ton of exposition never hurt anybody. Also, it's Scorpio szn, so I can do what I want.
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Huge thank you to [Mags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0lyheadharpies%22) and [Ela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxPrettyLittleTimeBombxx) for polishing this up. I love them both endlessly.
> 
> Also, if you are reading this, live in the United States, and are eligible to vote but haven't yet - you are contractually obligated to do so tomorrow :) Unless you're planning on voting for Trump. You can stay home. 
> 
> This has been a pubic service announcement.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/bbotanyclub) & [tumblr](https://bbotanyclub.tumblr.com)


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